


Yours is a Shallow Voice

by pipelliot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Canon Era, First Time, Fluff, Insecure!Merlin, M/M, POV Second Person, Puppy!Arthur, Uther's Reign
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:11:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipelliot/pseuds/pipelliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Merlin is extremely shy and painfully self-conscious. His magic subconsciously works to make him quiet and faceless and blend into the background. He falls in love with Arthur, but from a quiet distance. Unnoticed and unappreciated and alone, Merlin gives everything to Arthur who doesn't recognize the love and loyalty that is right in front of his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours is a Shallow Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt.](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/32553.html?thread=33945897#t33945897) Has not been edited since original posting, so apologies for mistakes! Title mostly borrowed from "To Be Alone" by Ben Howard.

Your ears are very large.

The other village children certainly used to think so. And while they pushed themselves off of the ground in their spare time, you used it to count the frogs in the ponds and to enchant them every kind of blue (every one until you were sure you found the shade your magic was made of). And while the off-coloured slime stained your tiny fingers, the other boys teased that your ears were wider than your ever-narrowing shoulders, that they were probably large enough to carry you away in strong autumn winds and to let you fly.

So you blushed and curled your hands into small fists and you shied away. You stopped playing with them and racing them in between the trees and instead went to find your own. You made the leaves dance and you shaped dragons and you smiled because they couldn't.

Your lips are fat and plump.

You're all at that age where you're in an atrocious state of being Caught In The Between- where you're not a man, but you're certainly not a boy either. You are no longer ignored but are tossed in the mud and bruised on your arms and around your eyes because you have the _prettiest mouth_ , perfect for the most lewd of things. And they lament at how unfortunate it is that lips like yours were blessed on a face otherwise so hideous, and what such a waste it is since no one would dare come within a wilful half an inch of you, because isn’t it funny, and isn’t it a shame that you are such a terribly lanky sod.

And, of course, you perform the strangest and most unnatural tricks.

So they begin to stray away from you again, because word has spread from the kingdom of Camelot and do you know what they do to sorcerers there? They burn them, that's what. Because King Uther says they're evil, that's why. So you're unnatural, and you're a freak, and so you keep even quieter than before. It isn’t too hard. It's not like anyone wanted to hold you around the bonfire festivities, and no one ever wanted to kiss you or hold your hand, anyway.

Eventually, you realize that it wasn't even that people were avoiding you so much as they just didn't notice you at all. You found that you didn't mind so much. It was terribly easier to fade into the shadows.

Except, no, not shadows, someone might've come looking in the shadows, mysterious things as they are. No, it was more a case of being painted the same as the dirty, bleak landscape, where anyone would bump right into you if they'd let their eyes wander a slant to left, if they'd try to peak at the sun.

You supposed that you should've been sad or angry at the fact that someone could walk straight into your chest, stumble, and be able to focus on your face for all of three seconds before their gaze wandered, blank and confused, past your bony shoulders. They'd mutter a soft _sorry_ to the sky, quiet as though they weren't entirely sure there was a need, like they'd forgotten if someone was there at all.

You figured you should have been angry or sad, but instead you felt a tremendous and rather sickening sort of relief.

No one looked at you, and no one noticed you, and so you could do no wrong in anyone's eyes, and so it was okay. It was very lonely, of course, but it beat not being able to step out of your mother's tiny cottage door without trembling in fear that Will might- oh, Gods forbid- say hello to you or something. You were pathetic and you were lonely, and you didn't think to try to stop your magic painting you dirty grey against dirty grey because you couldn't deny the relief of being able to collapse against the rotting wood everyday, holding your knees tight to your chest with your swirling blue magic teaching you how to read.

Will forgot you, of course, eventually. You didn't mind so much, though, because you figured it would’ve happened anyway, blue swirls or no.

* 

The day your mother forgot your name for all of three minutes, she cried and she sent you to Gaius and to Camelot to _get better_.

You remember the way your magic sizzled and burned and turned undoubtedly red beneath your skin, almost like it granted an entirely new layer. You remember how your stomach twisted and turned, how your knees weakened and shook, how your mother pulled you into her arms and kissed your hair like you were something worth fixing.

*  
Camelot is bustling with people, and it's frightening. 

The King burns people like you here, and it's frightening.

Gaius is kind but private enough and you are eternally grateful. He only forgets your name a handful of times, and you find that you quite like how it feels, and you're grateful for that too. 

*  
You've met Gwen, who's pretty and blushes and stutters like you're almost a little bit important, before any recognition seems to fade from her eyes and she apologizes, walks away.

You feel disappointed because, for once, you didn't want someone to walk away.

It's alright, though, because she still remembers you sometimes and even brought you a flower, once. You smiled, bright and genuine, and so did she. It was nice.

*  
Prince Arthur-

Prince Arthur does not have very large ears. Prince Arthur does not have very large ears at _all_.

You would say that Arthur has very nice, very average-sized ears, that bracket an equally very nice, er, face. Arthur has a nice, strong nose set between a perfectly nice pair of sparkling blue eyes. He has a nice, definitive jaw and the nicest cheekbones that do not overly protrude like yours but that are sharp and shadow his cheeks just nicely.

His shoulders are sure and broad, though his arms do not threaten to burst through his sleeves and you think that is the nicest way for ones arms to be. Arthur wears his tunics loose (flatteringly so, unlike yours) with the laces undone just so that you can see Arthur's nice, golden collarbones and just a light dusting of fair hairs peaking out nicely from underneath. He always walks with a clever and confident stride (one so foreign to your hunched-to-the-point-of-aching shoulders) and whenever the sun manages to seep through the clouds it always happens to reflect off of Arthur's golden, fluffy-soft looking hair in the nicest possible way.

It's-

Arthur is _very nice._

But even if you were the only one who thought so, and even if it just so happened that Arthur indeed wasn't the treasured heir to the throne of Camelot, it didn't matter, because Arthur's smile is bright and crooked and perfectly-imperfectly lovely and yours-

Well, yours isn't.

*

You lug buckets of water and deliver the strange liquids with a wide smile for the people who pass you by because you find that you want to. They’re all so happy and bright and you want to show that you can be that way too. They don’t notice you always, of course, but sometimes you get a second glance, and you think the knots in your lungs loosen up just a little, and that's nice too.

*

The Prince walks right into your shoulder and the sleeve of your overly worn tunic snags on something to do with the shoulder of his complicated chainmail.

He stumbles, frowns, opens his mouth as if to tell you off, but instead blinks at you, surprised, and says “Forgive me, I mustn't have been looking where I was going.”

“No, no, it’s my fault. Er, Sire.” You choke out, and your smile is wobbly, sure, but it’s there.

His pout is painfully adorable as he tries to lift your tunic off of some sparkling metal, which unfortunately manifests itself into a smirk when he tries to focus his eyes on yours. “ _Er_ , Sire?”

You smile, wide, because his eyes are a blue you’ve never seen before (and you imagine it’s the blue the swirls are made of) and you just can’t help it.

You say, (stupidly) bravely, “Yes, I believe that’s what I said. Sire.” And you're shaking a little bit, but could have sworn you saw something gleam in his gaze.

To your infinite relief, he huffs out a laugh and looks back to where his fingers occasionally brush against your arm and where his other hand is definitely holding your arm steady. You swear you can feel your heartbeat in your throat. It’s terrifying. 

It’s thrilling.

He miraculously manages to slip your tunic from the shiny metal without a single tear, and you say your thanks, but his eyes have unfocused and he’s already at the end of the corridor because he has forgotten you are there. 

*

You’re not sure when it was exactly you started to fall in some kind of ridiculous love with him.

He’s lovely and golden and fair. Sometimes he’s so real, but sometimes you don’t think so.

(Sometimes he’s a beautiful boy with a beautiful boy’s cruelly bright grin. He chases spotty-chinned servants with gleaming eyes and a purposefully stuttered throw of a dagger, the swing of his mace just an inch short of too-wide.

And sometimes, when the apples are especially spoiled and his father’s guards aren’t quite so sewn to his side, he carries tiny children on his back; inspiring giggles from sunken, happy, distracted faces and dirt-smudged arms looped too weakly around his neck. From the pump where you’ve stood just smiling at his smile and stupidly exaggerated expressions, you don’t have to pretend you’re not looking, and you’re almost certain you hear the sounds of whinnying horses, of galloping hooves kicking up dust on the stones. None ever too particularly lifelike.)

He throws his head back when he laughs.

It’s horrible and fluttering and suffocating and you watch him move with what feels like a constant dread and stinging in your eyes.

Mother always did say you felt too much, too soon, too often. No ones ever watching, though, so you rub your fingers against the corner of your eyes and you reckon it doesn't matter all that terribly anyway.

*  
Of course, troubles in the form of dragons and Lady Helen's would eventually nose their merry way into your quiet life and King Uther grants you the position of Arthur's personal manservant (before blinking confusedly at you and turning once again to the hall and declaring the feast at an abrupt end.)

You remember how you couldn't breathe. You remember Arthur’s mild protests that he didn’t need a personal servant, really, and that they should just give you coin instead. You remember how Arthur gripped your shoulder, casual, as he said so, and how you promptly fled to hide pathetically (always pathetic) under your bed where you collapsed against the cold stone for the entire night.

*

At first, when you drop just about everything he gets angry and calls you useless.

You save him from the priestess Nimueh and he still can’t quite grasp your name.

*

When he doesn’t get his way in the ways that matter, he notices you, because he’s furious and he needs someone to notice.

You’ve slowly but eventually gotten used to teasing him the way he teases you. It’s amusing, sometimes relaxing, can make you happy even- and so mostly, when he’s like this you find that you don’t mind, because it’s only you, and as long as it’s only you, it’s okay.

*  
You think about the future the Dragon tells you you’re destined to have and to build together. You picture a kingdom doused in gold and a golden King that lounges above it.

But no, that’s not right. 

You scratch at your temples and you picture a golden King with bruises around his wrists and eyes, mud smudged on his cheeks and supporting armor as heavy and secure as the men’s he battles with and against.

Yes, you think. That’s better.

You try to picture how the Dragon says you’ll stand at his right hand side and not a couple steps behind with your hands clasped and proper. You try to see yourself in fine velvet cloaks and with your magic practised enough that you can see it swirling at your fingertips and seeping into the castle stones with all the words you’d ever learned about protections.

You imagine keeping him safe, always and forever, because your magic singes a little under your skin when you don’t and you just can’t imagine otherwise.

You laugh a little (and probably madly) to yourself when you try to picture yourself at his side. When you try to imagine how his hand would fit in yours, strong and sure and protective- (and you shamefully dream, just a little bit possessive)-you can’t imagine it. You can’t.

You snap out of your daydream because you’ve been tossed upside the head. He frowns at you when you don’t retort, just startle. He looks like he’s about to ask you if something’s wrong. Instead, his eyes stray past your shoulder for a moment until he finds yours once again.

He wants something, after all.

*  
Lots of things want to hurt Arthur, so a lot of things want to hurt you. 

It’s exhausting.

You’re poisoned, and people notice. People want to help you. Gaius feeds you potions in your half delirious state and Gwen mops your brow with red, red eyes and looking devastated.

Arthur notices you’re gone, and he nearly dies to get you back. It’s kind of impossible to process, so you don’t. 

But then you do, just a little. But maybe you’re making it too big. Maybe it’s nothing at all. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It’s nothing. (You’re pathetic.) It’s everything.

(It’s exhausting.)

*  
“Merlin.”

The sun is blinding when you open your eyes too quickly and you groan. You don’t scramble or stutter guiltily, though, and you almost give yourself a pat on the back. “Um. Arthur?”

“Merlin, why are you lying on the ground?”

“I’m uh- I’m not?”

“Merlin, why are you _still_ lying on the ground?”

“I was just watching you train. You’ve, you know, improved! Your sword. It’s,” you cough, pointing in the general direction of his hip. “Sharp.”

You think you see the beginnings of a smile twitching on his lips, shielded behind his best I-am-wonderful-and-patient-and-you-are-an-idiot expression, hands on hips and hair matted against his forehead. He’s all sweaty, and ridiculously gorgeous and you really do hate yourself sometimes.

He’s still looking at you, completely at you, waiting.

You almost forget to be shocked that he can see you at all.

“How can you see me?” you ask too loudly before you know it, in a bit of a daze and pushing yourself up to lie back on your elbows.

He frowns, studying you, and it's hard to remember the last time anyone ever wanted to look at you for this long. “I’m not blind, Merlin.” Then he’s stepping closer, frown deepening and brows knitting together. He crouches too quickly beside you, pulling off a glove and reaching out to stroke under your eye like it’s perfectly natural, instinctive. Like it’s nothing.

For such strong hands, his fingers are so gentle where they hold your face. His thumb strokes slowly, painfully carefully swiping just below your lashes. You feel his breath drying on your lips. 

He’s pouting.

You’re pretty sure there are leaves in your hair.

“Have you been sleeping?” He asks, and you would think he looks concerned. Really, genuinely concerned. But- “Yes,” you say, because you’ve been lying on the ground and _there are leaves in your hair._

“I mean in general, idiot” he says quickly, pulling his hand away sharply because you probably look like you’re about to be ill. “How have I-“ he clears his throat, straightening up, now with his best I-am-The-Prince-expression. “Forgive me for not noticing sooner.”

You smile, but everything about you shakes. “Why would you?”

(He doesn’t break his gaze on you, not for one moment. And, sure, your head is spinning, and you’re so, so magnificently tired, but you don’t break either.)

*

“You know what I’d love right about now? A honeycake.”

“You know what I’d love right about now? Just honey. Just _one big pot_ of Cook Stella's honey.”

“Hmm. You fetch the honey and I’ll fetch the spoons?”

“Guinevere! Stealing! I’m scandalized.” 

“No, not stealing, silly. Simply… borrowing.”

“Gwen, you do not know me if you think I would simply _borrow a pot of honey_. That implies leaving something to give back.”

Gwen chuckles.“That’s true.”

Lying in the gardens and looking at the clouds is probably one of your favourite things to do. When Gwen is with you, you let her see you entirely and you’re unafraid and you’re happy. You both helped eachother finish your chores early and so the sun is warm on your face, the grass is tickling your cheeks and the happy sounds of happy people pottering about with flowers in their hair fill the background. You say what you think and you joke and you tease and you don’t worry about silly things like your clumsiness or your ears.

You’re not entirely sure why you do, but there’s a sunny yellow daffodil sprouting from the base of the tree trunk stood next to you, so you snag it and hold it over Gwen beside you. You turn your head and her smile is shy but delighted when she takes it and twirls it in her fingers.

“What’s that for?” she giggles.

You shrug. “I’m happy. Right now, I'm happy.”

She smiles wider at that and you’re ridiculously ecstatic that it was you who caused it.

“Which is your favourite, then?" she asks, "Flower, I mean.”

You make sure Gwen is looking at the clouds before your eyes glow gold and a cluster of tiny, blue flowers sprout in between you.

“These,” you say when they’ve fully grown, plucking one and stretching an arm out above, twirling it between your fingers. “I like these ones.”

“Ah, myosotis,” Gwen says, smiling, and you grin when she plucks it from your fingers gently but openly, comfortable and without apology.

“Forget me not.”

“Hmm?”

“Forget-me-nots. That’s what my mother calls them. That’s how they’re known in Ealdor, anyway.”

“That’s odd,” Gwen chuckles.

“I guess. But they’re lovely, aren't they? They were always my favourites. There were so many daisies everywhere that I picked my favourite places in the forest based on wherever I found the biggest cluster of forget-me-nots. I’d spend all of my time there. They’re just a comfort, I guess.” You smile, in a bit of a daze but still suddenly shy all over again, “A bit pathetic, I know.”

“Not at all,” Gwen assures, patting your arm and squeezing just a bit.

“They remind me of the good things about home. Some things were good. I have to remember that.”

“Merlin,” urges Gwen gently, nudging your elbow until you look at her. “You have a new home now.”

“Do I?” you ask with a chuckle, but not unkind. You’re careful to smile and keep it light. It mustn’t have worked, though, because Gwen only sighs, pity laced through big brown eyes.

“Arthur likes you,” she says, not-so out of the blue.

“I never-“

“Arthur likes you.”

“Gwen-“

“Arthur likes you. A lot.”

“You don’t know-“

“It’s not a bet. It’s not a joke. He likes you. He really, genuinely likes you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Anyone with eyes knows it, Merlin.” She turns completely on her side to face you, resting her hand under her cheek. “ I know you don’t think anyone notices you,” she says, and you wince, because Gwen is positively lovely but tact has never quite been her strong point. “But sometimes you don’t pay much attention either.” 

She nudges your hand, whispers quiet but firm, “It’s like you go into your own invisible little world where,-good or bad- you think you have everything figured out and absolutely refuse to believe anything otherwise."

She takes your hand with reassuring fingers, an infinitely comforting warmth from the touch of something living that smiles when you exist- a heat that can never quite be matched by the sun. She takes your hand and she says, “So I know you won’t believe me when I tell you this, Merlin, but it’s actually very possible to like you.”

You don’t know when exactly your vision began to blur, when your throat started to scratch and burn. But it’s happening before you know it, and in a flash Gwen is kneeling in front of you, stroking her thumbs across your cheekbones, (much like another incident you suppose you tried your hardest to forget) and a pained look in her eyes, while you shake your head frantically.

You feel like you should apologize for that, so you do. It must’ve been the wrong thing to do, though, because she only looks sadder.

“Oh, Merlin,” she says, running her hands soothingly up and down your arms. “It’s true.” She wipes another tear from near the corner of your mouth, and even though you hear her quiet sniffles and see the wetness of her eyes, you can also see she’s trying her best to be encouraging, to smile.

“You just need to give them a chance.”

*  
The summer night has been long and unusually hot. Everything seems to be sweltering and slipping through your fingers. Lords and their sons seemed to notice you more and more as they sank deeper into their cups, snapping their fingers and looking at you like you’re meat. (Smirking like you’re less than that.)

Afterwards, Arthur stomps about and flairs his nostrils and huffs if your boots so much as scuffle against the stones.

Most of the time, you don’t mind, not really. But tonight you’re edgy, and he’s edgy, and it’s far too warm, and so when he lists off at least thirteen things that are wrong with you (that you’re already well aware of), you snap.

“You don’t get to _treat people like that_!”

You expect him to yell. To shout and throw untouched supper plates and shut you in the stocks for at least the night. Instead, he immediately softens, deflates. You can’t see the blue of his wide eyes, but the low candle light makes them sparkle. “ _You’ve_ never complained before.”

And just like that you’re you again. “Well… well, yes, but- people in general, you just shouldn’t.”

“But I can to you?” he presses, not a question.

“That’s not the point.” 

“No, actually,” he says, “I think it is.”

He’s stepping close now, closer, closer, closer until the tips of your boots almost touch. He looks at you, eyes searching, but you’re really not sure what he’s looking for. His eyes are wide and there’s a frown between his brows that you want to smooth out with your fingers so, so badly, but you’re practically sharing quickening breaths, and his mouth is wet and parted slightly and your will to run far, far away, you find, is much stronger.

“Fuck,” he says suddenly. “Fuck. Merlin, you’re-“ he trails off, letting out a huff of breath, stepping back a little and running a hand through his hair in a way that pulls you right back.

Then: 

“It’s like I’ve hardly even seen you before. It’s. It’s ridiculous, I-“ he laughs, disbelieving, looking away from you but not, you don’t think, because he’s forgotten you’re there. Somehow, that’s worse. Because somehow, _somehow_ , he can see you (and isn’t that terrifying enough) but now he doesn’t want to.

“Hey, no,” he says, darting forward when you start wringing your hands and squeezing your nails so far into your trembling palms that you’re- Oh. That you’re pretty sure it bleeds.

He reaches out immediately, grabbing your hands and unfurling your probably disgustingly sweat-slick fingers. You can see it takes some effort. Huh. You didn’t know you were so strong. “Merlin, no,” he says again, looking so genuinely confused and concerned and panicked now that you wonder how it could be genuine at all.

It’s all rather nauseating.

He crowds you and you think you’re swaying. Everything is shaking and blurring, and suddenly he brackets you in his too-warm arms, sleeves rolled up as far as they can go. He keeps saying your name and asking if you ‘re alright, but you can’t help but notice he has very strong, very nice arms. (But of course you’ve noticed that before.)

You slump in his arms and that’s probably very embarrassing, but you don’t take much notice of that because it really is very warm.

Eventually, you realise you’re being supported by the headboard of the Prince’s bed, and if your cheeks hadn’t already resembled twin tomatoes then that would sure enough have set them off. He hands you a cup of lukewarm water and you gulp it down like its air, breathing in gasps when you forget to. “Drink up, now, hurry,” says Arthur, firm and level, his usual confident self. It’s almost reassuring. (Even if the tiny shrill of worry in voice did delight you just a little bit and, oh, aren’t you a terrible person.)

(You pretend that his gaze didn’t drift to your throat as you drank into the bottom of your cup. You pretend he didn’t stare at your mouth after you wiped it across the back of your wrist. He didn’t. He couldn’t of. He didn’t. Don’t think. Don’t you dare.)

You spot a flash of dirty white in his hand, and shake your head. “There’s no need, I-“ He doesn’t listen, though, of course- only sits by your thigh and tugs a hand into his lap. You tilt your head against expensive wood and watch as his fingers work the bandage just below your knuckles, circling your palm. He catches his lip between his teeth, frowning still like he has been for far too long. His fingers are practiced and quick, but he ties it too tight. 

He looks you straight in the eye for a long time, waiting, but you don’t know what he’s waiting for. Then he sighs a sigh of the angry and resigned and asks, “Is that okay?” You nod. Slow. Dumb.

He asks again, slower, firmer, deliberate “ _Is that okay?_ ” and- Oh. Oh. You get it.

“It’s too- it’s too tight.”

He nods,satisfied, retying with much gentler fingers. 

He doesn’t quite let go of your hand after, staring at it thoughtfully with his thumb swiping across the bandage, back and forth, back and forth like it’s something that matters. Like it’s not just tiny, dotted bursts of skin. You’d almost call it tender. Almost.

You’re not sure how long you both sit in silence, eyes sewn to your hand and the movement. You startle a little when he finally speaks, eyes flickering back up to his quick enough for the room to spin.

“Don’t do that,” he says, eyes dark with something you’re not sure of. “Don’t you ever.”

“Sorry,” you say, because it feels like the thing to do.

“ _Merlin_ ,” his grip grows tighter, warning.

You take your hand back, stroke it idly yourself because the sudden loss of pressure almost aches. “What do you want from me?” you ask, quiet, a little bit completely exhausted.

A pause.

“I want you to call me a prat.”

You frown, confused, because that’s not how it works. He says:

“I want you to yell at me to sod off. I want you to deny everything I said earlier. I want you to _bloody stand up for yourself_.”

“I do-"

“No- no you can _tease_. You'll tell me off for just about everyone else in the kingdom, but you do not ever, _not ever_ stand up for yourself and don't think I haven't noticed. I’m sick of it.”

You try your hardest to fade away, you really do. But what Arthur really wants, he gets, after all.

“Look at me,” he says. You do.

“You are a useless sod,” he says.

You nod. It hurts. His face is all edges and lines, and it hurts like a knife to the gut, but it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.

“You’re not even worth a pair of my thinnest, rattiest boots.”

“Okay,” you say. Nothing of the like you’ve never heard before.

“You are lanky and no one will ever love you.”

There is nothing more you want in the world than to collapse against that creaky wooden door of your mother’s tiny old cottage and trace your fingertips over strange letters on a withering page. But Arthur’s focus on you is absolute, and you can only wrap your arms around your chest and hope he’ll walk away again sometime soon.

“ _Merlin_ ,” he drawls again, exasperated, “Are you really going to just take this shit from me?”

“No!” you snap, getting up and probably swaying a little, because Arthur’s playing games and you’re angry. But soon you remember that you don’t really have an answer after all, and so you feel like wringing your hands again, hiding your bandages behind your back and mumbling to your chest “I don’t know.”

“Merlin,” he says, a little softer, a little quieter, a little more serious. “Merlin, you don’t actually believe- you can’t-“

You think you hear him sigh but your blood really is loud in your ears. He makes to grab your elbow gently, lowering you back down to sit on his bed- _on his bed_ \- before you know it. You follow obligingly, oblivious. Then he’s at your knees, crouching down before you with soft, wide eyes and hand closing around your knee, the ring on his thumb swiping across the rough and worn fabric there. You can’t. Arthur is as good as kneeling at your feet (No. _Never_ ) and you just _can’t_. He’s looking at you. It’s so warm and he just keeps looking at you and you don’t understand and it’s-

“Look at me,” he says again. Adding “Please” until you do.

“You’re not useless,” he says, squeezing his fingertips for emphasis. “and you’re not worthless. Not at all. Infact, you’re worth quite a lot to me.”

You smile, small and too happy for what the rest of you is saying. Because you know that Arthur’s nice, can be nice when he wants to. He doesn’t want you to be too down on yourself. That’s nice, and you appreciate it.

“I mean it.” he says, smiling a little now too, encouraged. “But you’re still lanky. That one’s inevitable, I’m afraid.”

You chuckle, a quiet thing. When you do, he looks relieved, eyes crinkling at the corners and expression turning from soft and teasing into something of a smirk.

“And I would think,” he continues, smug like he already knows what it’s going to do to you, “that it would be rather easy to fall in some ridiculous kind of love with you.”

For once, you don’t pretend it didn’t happen.

You’re very, very thankful that you’re already sitting down.

*  
That’s, you suppose, when it starts. When you can’t hide from him at all anymore. When he can see you. When you really think he can see you, always, completely and truly.

*  
“What?”

Arthur, who’s leaning against the bedpost with arms crossed (and looking sufficiently smug as always), shrugs.

“What are you looking at?”

“You,” he says simply, like it’s perfectly normal, like the look in his eyes (the one he adapts, you realize, when he’s got a pretty deer to snatch) doesn’t make your insides mangle a bit. (And flutter a lot.)

“Why?” you ask, a little bit squeakier than you would have liked. You set down the spade beside the fireplace with a clang and begin to roam over your shoulders and cheeks and thighs with what you belatedly realize are soot covered fingers. “Ah, shit.” You try and clench your sleeve with your filthy fingers, stretch it over your knuckles and swipe pathetically at your face. “What, though? What was wrong with me before?”

“Nothing.” 

You arch a brow, disbelieving.

“Well, your ears are a bit unfortunate,” states Arthur matter-of-factly.

“Right,” you mutter to your chest. You’re disappointed with yourself because you really should be over that one by now. Instead, you’re pretty sure said ears are a horrendous scarlet and you resolute to find a spell to prevent that as soon as you can get away from him.

He should have forgotten you by now. You want him to. You should fade away like always.

But.

“But I’d hardly call it an _unpleasant_ view,” he says, tilting his head and squinting in a kind of mock assessment. He smirks smugly, not at all meeting your eyes, gaze sneaking lower and- oh. _Oh_.

You immediately assume he’s joking, of course. A late-night drunken bet promised with knights-- _just how terrible can you make those horrendous ears flush?_

You consider calling him out on it, but since he’s not laughing, you suppose he’d probably only deny it. You don’t think you could handle that, so you turn back around, wipe your sooty hands down your already dirt-smudged trousers for no reason at all and keep your mouth firmly shut. You crouch back down to sweep the ashes from the fireplace, flushed all over and heart pounding in your ears.

*  
“Have you seen my neckerchief?”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Sorry, um-“ you mumble, not really paying attention while you potter about Arthur’s chambers in search of the darned thing. You check every shelf (note that they need to be dusted) and drop to your knees to peak under the bed (which, when you have a minor coughing fit, note _definitely_ needs to be dusted) and mutter, confused, “It’s just, I could’ve sworn I left it in here.”

“I haven’t seen it, Merlin, I assure you.”

“Are you sure?” You check rather uselessly under one of the many poncy pillows lounging on Arthur’s bed. You really have checked everywhere else.

“Why do you want it, anyway?” inquires Arthur from his now perched position on top of his desk. You notice how his feet swing a bit, dangling, heels hitting against the wood the odd time with an echoed clunk. You’d tease him for the sheer childishness of it, you would, but you’re a little preoccupied with your search and sighing at yourself for finding the movement and lack of rhythm so endearing. ”It’s a beautiful day out,” Arthur is saying. “You don’t need a scarf.”

“ _Neckerchief,_ ” you correct, trying to hide your sudden blush behind faux annoyance.

“Oh, whatever. Point is- you don’t need it.”

Arthur does have a point. You feel pathetically exposed without it, though, so you put your hands on your hips and wear your sternest, most annoyed expression.

(Trouble is he’s smirking at you in a way that’s not entirely mean. Hardly mean at all, in fact. You want to say… _fond?_ No, it’s-)

“ _Arthur._ ”

“Oh, _fine_.” He sounds as equally annoyed as you’re pretending to be, but he’s smiling and somehow it’s lovely. You find that you love those rare boyish grins, full of mischief and play. You try not to think about how Arthur’s motherless childhood might have been; a cold and distantly loving Uther, the empty seat at supper where Ygraine should’ve sat with a tiny Arthur balanced on her lap, cherishing and nurturing and kind. How the wooden swords he’d wield would drag him to the ground too quickly, how he’d stride about the castle with small, pattering feet, chin perked up and proper—- Prince-in-training, a boy grown up too fast.

Arthur reaches into his pocket and produces your neckerchief. You go along with the joke, putting on your best disapproving face, and make to go and snatch it from him.

Instead, though, he hops from his place on the desk and, with a very much put-upon sigh, crosses over to you in far too few steps. He takes his time, making a show out of straightening out the neckerchief before stepping closer. You’re standing almost chest to chest, and you can’t breathe.

Carefully, painfully slowly, he reaches up to tie it around your neck. You feel his warm fingers on your delicate skin where you’re almost certain he’s touching way more than necessary. 

“I much prefer you without it, though.”

His fingers tickle your nape and you’re struggling not to giggle manically- not just at how his knuckles keep brushing the finer hairs there- but at the way you swear he’s staring at your mouth now, looking rather flushed, his own lips parted slightly, promptly bleeding out his confidence.

He clears his throat. You almost jump.

“But if you absolutely must,” he starts, finally finishing the knot and smoothing his hands down your shoulders and chest a bit in a way that makes you just the tiniest bit insane. You notice how he refuses to meet your eyes when he says “do wear the blue one. It matches your eyes.”

His gaze flickers to your incredulously wide-eyed one for no more than a second before you notice he's blushing furiously, too, stepping away too quickly and practically legging it from the room.

*  
Not a week later (a week of furious blushes and endless frustration) you walk into your chambers and find a cluster of tiny, blue flowers tied together with a blood red ribbon (looking mysteriously as though it’s been stolen from Lady Morgana’s dresser) lying prettily on your pillow. The blue is cheerful and stark against the dirty grey, and you smile.

You assume it’s Gwen, of course, thinking back to the day you lay in the gardens, when you told her absently and rather embarrassingly of how lovely you thought forget-me-nots were, how they were your favourites. You notice a tiny piece of fine parchment set down beside the small bundle, and frown when you recognize the perfect and practised curves of the letters instead of Gwen’s looped and clumsy hand.

_Because you’re lovely. -A_

Reason tells you you should be delighted. Reason also tells you you’re ridiculous and Arthur’s ridiculous and that he really knows how to cross the most important and delicate lines.

(You realize you’ve never been so angry on behalf of yourself before. You think mother might have even called it progress.)

You snatch the flowers roughly up in your hand in a way that’s probably crushing the stems. You find you don’t even care, which only makes you angrier.

You march your way to the private training grounds where you know he’ll be. He’s busy battering a suit of empty, old armor with his swords and maces, steps perfectly practised and perfectly controlled yet perfectly fluent.

Perfect.

Because Prince Arthur Pendragon is _perfect_.

Except for when he isn’t.

“Merlin!” he calls when he finally spots you. You carefully ignore how his entire face seems to immediately brighten when he does.(You figure he’s just a dedicated man.)

He grins, wide and shameless, nodding at the flowers in your hand. “You found them, then?”

You force yourself to ignore the twist in your stomach when you throw them to the ground and can practically see the happiness bleed out of him.

“Stop it.”

Arthur looks shocked, like he genuinely has no idea how messing with people like this is wrong. That messing with _you_ \- that that’s not right either. “Excuse me?”

“You just can’t treat people this way, Arthur. It’s horrible. I’m not- I don’t care who you are, I don’t care how much you have betting on this-“

“-Betting?"

“-Fine, whatever, it was just for fun then, even better, I still-“

“Merlin, what the hell?” He looks so thoroughly confused. Your throat is beginning to close up. “Can you slow down, please? Or at least explain what I’ve done that’s so wrong?” He takes a step closer- you take one back.

“Oh, no. _No_. You _prat_. You’re not making me say it.”

“Say _what?_ Merlin, what’s wrong?” He looks you so sincerely in the eye that you eventually just slump, giving up. You sink down to sit under the familiar oak a couple steps behind, and dig your palms tiredly into your eyes. “Can’t you just- stop pretending?" you ask finally. "I’m kind of exhausted.”

“I can see that,” says Arthur, impossibly gentle, sitting beside you and with an expression full of a genuine concern and an openness that bleeds you of any fight you think you might have had left. “How am I pretending?”

“You know. With all the. Um.” You really, really wish Arthur wouldn’t notice you right now. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted to disappear or fade away as much as you do just now, with the way he’s inching closer and closer, with how patient he’s being with his gorgeous eyes and subconscious pouting and-

“Hey, no, don’t,” he protests when you bring your knees to chest and drop your head so you can at least stupidly pretend he can’t see you. It’s hard, though, when the hand that was initially gripping your shoulder is now stroking down your back, moving in slow, careful circles down the small of it. It’s back, you realize. That feeling where you can’t really breathe. “Don’t hide like that. I want _my_ Merlin. My Merlin who talks back and calls misyotis' _forget-me-nots_ and calls me a prat when I try to make stupid romantic gestures.”

“I was angry,” you argue weakly, trying your hardest to ignore most of things he says- it can do you no good, surely.

“But you defended yourself.”

You laugh, but it’s utterly hollow. “So you did all this just to get me to yell at you?”

“No! No, that’s just me being useless at courting.” Arthur tries for a smile, all vulnerable and warm, and you pretend it doesn’t make your heart melt. “All I want is for you to realize how great you are.”

“Oh, so it’s actually just your way of giving me a confidence boost?” You try to sound as biting as you can, but it comes out a lot weaker than you wanted, as usual.

“ _Merlin_ ” says Arthur, exasperated. He actually moves so he can crouch in front of you, eyes wide and searching. You find it almost hurts a bit being this scrutinized. He holds your shoulders tightly and you feel oddly and suddenly conscious of your ears. “You’re impossible, you know that? You are a beautiful and impossible man. Your eyes properly _sparkle_ and you are the most selfless person I have ever met. I’m a little bit obsessed with your neck and your favourite flowers are _forget-me-nots_. You have a _bloody favourite flower_.”

It’s quiet for a long time. You see the utter openness, the complete sincerity in his face- suddenly so, so vulnerable and young- and you try your very hardest to let yourself believe.

And then, because you never did learn when to say the right thing, you blurt “How did you know? That they’re my favourite flowers?”

Arthur frowns, clearing his throat. “I, uh- Gwen. Gwen told me.”

“Oh.”

Then-

“You know how you said you were obsessed with my neck? And that my eyes sparkle?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Does that mean you want to kiss me?”

“I- yes. Yes it does.”

“Oh.”

Arthur sighs. He lifts his hands off of your shoulders (when did you grab onto them so tight?) and places them on either side of your face. He leans in to press a long, feathery-light and lingering kiss to your cheek, then one small peck on the same spot before leaning away only the tiniest stretch.

“You don’t believe me, though, do you?” Arthur states rather than asks. You shake your head. It’s small, but you’re sure he sees.

“Well, then,” he says with a small, ever-patient smile, his thumbs stroking tenderly over your chin, swiping gently over your bottom lip. “I guess I’m just going to have wait until you do.”

*  
“I love you” says Arthur.

“No you don’t.”

“Why not?”

“My ears are very large.”

His arms are wrapped just loose enough around your waist for you to be able to order your lungs to, for once, do their job. He has his chin perched on your shoulder in a way that’s now somehow so familiar but still so completely intimate that you can still hardly believe it. He whispers low in your ear, his breath tickling in a way that makes you a little bit insane. “I love your ears.”

\--Which is absurd. It makes your stomach twist and turn, somehow equally nauseating and blissful, but it’s still ultimately absurd. You let out a giggle. You turn your head a little to see, out of the corner of your eye, Arthur biting his lip, eyes sparkling like he’s trying not to giggle too. He does in the end.

You find that, for possibly the absolute first time ever, you don’t mind.

“I’m sorry, _I mean it_ , I really do.” You giggle some more. So does he, closing his eyes and nuzzling your ear as he does so.

“It’s okay. You’re much nicer about it than they used to be.”

Arthur stops laughing so suddenly that you realize that was probably the wrong thing to say entirely, and you curse yourself for ruining the moment. You try to pull away, feeling a bit embarrassed, but his hold only tightens. 

Then there’s a gloriously warm, light wetness at your ear, a tongue deliciously tracing the outline, a nibble at the lobe-- and then it’s being sucked into the heat of Arthur’s painfully wonderful mouth. You tense all over until you feel hands, gentle, soothing, exhilarating, sliding down your sides, up your chest, until you relax, until you feel a quick peck of perfectly soft lips, impossibly fond, where its all thin and delicate behind your left ear, and you try hard not to swoon ridiculously.

All you dream about is how those lips would feel everywhere else; places you’d never dream of anyone ever wanting to explore with you. It’s odd places- like the stretch of loose skin that joins your thumb to your forefinger, on the knobs of your far too prominent spine. It’s much-too-hopeful places, like back of your knee, the dip of your spine.

It’s the place you wish for most of all- your mouth. Your fat, plump mouth that swelled so often back at home when the boys were old enough to notice and make fun of it. The skin you hated, that you chewed and bit to bloody pieces. The part of you that Arthur refuses to kiss just yet. 

That doesn't stop you from imagining the soft perfection of Arthur’s mouth on yours. You picture it delicate and light, closed and sweet. A _hello_ , a _goodnight_ , an _I missed you today_. You picture it desperate and hot, sucking and biting, completely open and swollen in all the good ways. An _I need you. I love you. (I see you.)_

But, see, this is where you tell yourself you’ll never have it. It’s where you don’t turn your head to plant a kiss at Arthur’s temple, and you don’t hold onto the arms wrapped closely around your shoulders. It’s where you watch your eyes glow golden in the reflection of ponds, it’s where light glows from your fingertips and you remember, _no_. No. You’ll never have it.

*  
“I love you” says Arthur.

“No you don’t.”

“Why not?”

Your eyes are puffy and red from lack of sleep, from crying and crying and crying because you’d planned to do this, for so long. Because he can’t love you and he has to know that. Because in his world, you are and always will be wrong.

You hold a flame in your palm, flickering and devastating and bright.

There’s nothing but stuttered breath between you, it fills the entire space, the noise of the gardens fading out into nothing until it’s just you and him and the treason (that hides you away and grows pretty blue flowers) stemming from and licking your hand. 

_Please don’t hate me. You don’t have to love me, just please don’t hate me._

Oh, did you say that out loud?

When he steps closer you realize you hadn’t even looked at him for a reaction, just glared at your palm, willing the burning tears from your bloodshot eyes and chewing your mouth to pieces to stop you from frowning so obviously. Then there are hands on either side of your neck, high enough for his thumbs to stroke your jaw. He tilts his forehead against yours, and he’s- he’s _smiling_.

“I know,” he says.

_How?_

“I’m not blind,” he says. “You’re not exactly invisible.”

_You can’t love me._

“Why?”

 _Because I_ am _invisible. My magic makes it so._

“Why is that?”

You chuckle, and suppose it doesn’t sound pleasant at all. _I’m a bit shy._

He slides his hands down your small chest, clutching at your tunic for a desperate moment before cupping them around and above the flame that still flickers, almost like he’s trying to warm them.

_Please don’t ask me to put it out._

He spreads his fingers, the natural blue light seeping through them, letting it breathe. “I won’t. I promise, I won’t.”

You let the flame die anyway, catching both of Arthur’s hands and bringing them to your terrible lips. You can’t help it. You press once, twice, dry and honest, the bravest you’ve ever been. Your cheeks are wet, your eyes still sting. You love him. You love him, you love him. He looks at you so closely, looks so vulnerable and unsure but still hopeful when he asks “Merlin,” like it’s something he’s been meaning to do for a while, “Merlin, do _you_ love _me?_ ”

You nod your head, somewhat frantically, and you let out a strangled laugh because it’s absurd that you wouldn’t love him. You’d say so, you really would, but you’ve forgotten how to speak because you really are hopeless at being a person. He still smiles though, wide and blinding and it’s possibly the most wonderful thing you ever seen.

*  
When Prince Arthur says he’ll _wait_ , what he really means is that he will do absolutely everything in his power to push things along.

He unties your neckerchief and kisses your neck exactly four times before tying it around your eyes. He takes you by the hand through the whole castle until you arrive at the farthest corner of the gardens, surrounded by old oaks and evergreens. You stumble on the cracks between the stones exactly six times. He laughs and you call him a prat while he kisses your knuckles and you keep going.

Pretty soon you hear the creaking of a gate, and the blackness falls away to a small field of blue-- they’re everywhere, with tiny spots of yellow in the middle, and they’re the colour of Arthur’s eyes, the blue the swirls are made of.

He skips in front of you to stand in the very middle-- spreads his arms and says “Tah-dah!” likes it’s not even a little bit ridiculous.

It looks like the sunset only bathes your garden in it’s gold. The way it hits him, you’d swear he were the very reason it shone in the first place.

He moves to step behind you then, probably thinking you wanted a better look. He loops his arms around your waist and kisses your neck some more before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I love you,” he says, casual and light. It’s nothing new. You’re certain he tells you everyday. Every day he tells you he loves you, and he’ll kiss your throat or your palm, or he’ll just hold your hand or hug you around the waist. He won’t kiss you on your lips (fat and plump and “gorgeous”) until he knows you believe it. Not until he says he knows he’s done it right.

(You whirl around in his hold so quick you almost trip over your own feet. You give yourself the tiniest moment to take in the look of pouting, happy confusion on his face before you pull him to you, catch his top lip and kiss it thoroughly away.)

“I know,” you say, when you catch your breath. Because you do.

**Author's Note:**

> While writing this fill over at the meme, a very nice person asked me to specify the conditions under which Merlin's magic works to hide him, and how/when others can see him. This was at the point after the scene where Merlin has his first outburst, when Arthur is particularly moody after the feast.
> 
> Here's my response, to any who've been left a bit confused or who are interested:
> 
> "So in this latest part Merlin has a bit of an outburst, yelling at Arthur and so wanting to be heard and therefore seen (albeit somewhat temporarily, in his own odd way). Merlin's _desire_ to be seen definitely had a part in that, in making him especially 'visible', but the reason he couldn't really _fade away_ again after Arthur started calling him silly things was because Arthur was already looking by then.  
>  _You try your hardest to fade away, you really do... But Arthur’s focus on you is absolute, and you can only...hope he’ll walk away again sometime soon._
> 
> So other people's desire to see him definitely has a play in it too. In Ealdor, Merlin might not have wanted to be seen, sure, but I guess the the others in the village eventually just didn't really care enough to see him anymore either, and so Merlin just kind of sank deeper and deeper into himself to the point that even Hunith forgot his name, no matter how much she herself could never want to forget. Merlin's magic had enveloped him in the shadows so particularly, deeply, the longer he allowed it to go on (or, more accurately, the longer he didn't really try to stop it).  
> But then he goes to Camelot and I suppose surprisingly enough _wants_ to be seen the odd time. So he allows himself to come out of himself a bit and for his magic to too- like for Gwen and Gaius and eventually Arthur when he gets more comfortable. Once he lets that loose he doesn't really know how to rope it back in, though, and that's where Arthur's (and Gwen's and Gaius') wants come in here too. They're looking at Merlin, wanting to see him, and Merlin has already 'let go' enough that he can't really hide anymore, never completely.  
>  So since using his magic was never entirely on purpose and more of a subconscious thing, Merlin isn't... I won't say powerful, but knowledgeable enough to control it too well. You could almost say its 'too late', Arthur's already seen him (and likes him. _like likes_ him!)so he can't really go hiding away again anytime soon. He doesn't really know how to.  
>  Does that make sense at all? I hope so. For a person who likes to write I can be awfully vague and just plain terrible at explaining myself sometimes."


End file.
